Shattered Illusions
by CrazyKater
Summary: *Gen* Hutch POV, missing scene from The Fix, Hutch struggles to find his footing after his rescue as he and Starsky seek respite in the room above The Pits.


Holy cats, I _actually_ wrote a short gen fic, and it's filled me with such an overwhelming sense of accomplishment that I may have to do it again.

Review if you want to :)

Xx

"This is going to end my career."

I regret the statement as soon it leaves my mouth. Seven soft little words that accidentally slip out, betraying the illusion of apathetic strength I've been so careful to cultivate since my partner rescued me from the scandal of a hospital visit, appearing out of thin air to collect me as I lay battered and broken in the dirt filled alleyway.

"That's not happening," Starsky rumbles from the other side of the room. Back turned, his eyes are set on the stained-glass window lining the wall and cleverly distorting the bar below.

"Bull-shit!" I bite back vehemently, though I'm close to tears.

I'm happy when Starsky doesn't respond; grateful he doesn't even look at me. It gives me a second to wipe my watery eyes and get a hold of myself, to hold on to the thin violent crust of anger carefully disguising my devastating pain.

I haven't cried yet, and I can't start now; if I do I'll never be able to stop.

Starsky looks like a caged animal as he weather's my silent desperation. Striding from one end of the room to the other, feet not making a sound as he does everything he can not to look at me. I don't blame him—not really—I can't bear the sight of myself either.

Last night was a hard one, and there's more to come, if Huggy's to be believed, and he is; his knowledge of drug withdrawal drastically outweighs mine, though how or why I've never really thought about, and I certainly don't intend to start now. Still, there was a knowing sadness in Huggy's eyes, a softness to how he gripped my shoulder while helping Starsky carry me up the stairs, that makes me wonder if he's been through this too. If we don't share some silent kinship now; bound together by the unspoken knowledge of sweat and pain, the strong metallic taste of coffee with too much sugar and chocolate bars we never wanted to eat.

I begged for it last night—Heroin. The dark grimy substance Forest took such pleasure flushing through my veins—though I don't remember the words. I remember Starsky holding me, the strength of his hands, the feeling of his chest beneath my back as I begged for help I knew he would never give. It was horrible night. Full of puke and pain, hopelessness and despair. And when the morning finally came it brought anger with it, leaving Starsky cagey, and me suffocating on my shame, regret, numbness, and fear.

We both avoid talking about Forest—at least with each other. I know Starsky's been talking to Dobey, and with his lingering presence coupled with the fact that we're hidden away in the room above The Pits, it's safe to say he's spoken to Huggy about Forest too.

My aversion to talking about Forest is fueled by pain. The disgust and grief that comes from knowing I sold Jeannie out for a fix. The uncertainty and fear gripping my heart as I quietly wonder how I could have done such a thing and what kind of person that makes me now.

What kind of person betrays their girlfriend for hit of Heroin? And what kind of person knows he would do it again if he had the chance?

It isn't until Starsky sits heavily at the card table, resting his head solemnly in his hands, that I wonder if his aversion is fueled by fear. If his avoidance is born from a need to ignore the impending fallout of what happened with Forest and the dark road in front of us.

What is all of this going to cost me— _us_ —now?

I don't want to picture Starsky with another partner, but that's a hard thought to avoid.

"Does Dobey know?" I ask bluntly, images of our livid superior flashing across my mind.

Dobey won't allow me to return to work after this. He won't, and he can't—at least not for a while—I've been compromised. Gifted a debilitating hunger and taste for a dubious drug that will fade in time but promises never to fully go away. Though cop feeding a secret drug habit is an old cliché, I've seen it happen to too many of my peers—good, solid, upstanding guys. Guys who never did anything bad in their lives outside of pissing off the wrong perp or making a horrible misstep while undercover—and now it's gonna happen to me.

"It won't," Starsky says firmly, the strength of his tone dissolving my thought. "I know what you're thinking right now and it ain't gonna happen. You're not like any them, never have been, never will be. You're stronger than all of them put together—"

"Am I?"

"Course."

"This happens all the time, Starsk," I say, my voice sounding hollow. "It's just that nobody ever talks about it. Jimmy Bell... and Frank Kemp... even Andy Hafer had it happen. They were good guys too— _great_ cops—until they lost their strength and gave in—"

"That ain't gonna happen to you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Don't be a dummy," he growls, but I see the answer in his eyes: because you got something they didn't have; you got me. "Over my dead body will you ever be doin' that shit again. You're gonna get dried out, then we're gonna go back to work, and we'll stay away from narco cases for a while..."

He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's reciting items off a grocery list, and I hate to burst his bubble—I really do—but someone's got to be honest about the situation. The choice isn't up to us or even Dobey, there'll be a panel of people, more powerful than the three of us, voting on whether I guard this city with a badge again.

"It's not that easy, Starsk," I whisper numbly. "You know it's not."

"Bull-shit." Starsky's eyes narrow with aggravation; he doesn't want to talk about this any more than I do, and though he's feigning otherwise, I know he can't ignore the repetitive fears rattling his head any more than I can—I'm certain by the way he starts pacing again.

Movement is his ally, anger his protection when things get too rough. That's why he has a hell of a time sitting through stake outs when he's in a bad mood and why he's struggling inside this little room. Too much pent up negative energy and no open space to sooth away his crippling frustration.

"You should shower..." he says, harshly grazing his knuckles against the wall before turning around.

"No."

"...get out of those dirty clothes..."

"No."

"... might make you feel better—"

"No," I growl, my lips setting in a scowl.

"Why not?"

Finally he looks at me, eyes shining with stubborn grief, his jaw clenched as though he's struggling not to cry. It's a surprising sight—even for me—a moment ago he was livid and now he looks afraid. And for a second I'm angry; what gives him the right show his pain when I'm trying so hard to conceal my own?

He has to hold on to his anger. If he starts falling apart now then I will too, and we'll both turn into a blubbering mess, and I can't have that. I don't need him now, but I will soon, and when the time comes he's gonna have to be strong.

Strong enough to tell me no when I beg and plead, again and again. Strong enough to do anything to keep me from leaving the room.

"I don't want to," I say defiantly, desperate to provoke his anger.

"Why?"

"Because..."

I hesitate, my gaze falling to my knees. My pants are dirty and torn, my shirt sweat stained and ripped. I feel disgusting and I know I can't smell much better. Yet, I still can't come up with a reasonable answer for why I don't want a shower or a change of clothes, and I can't seem to give a voice to the panic rising in my chest. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was tied up, drugged, forced to do whatever Forest wanted me to do, and I'll be damned if I'm going to do anything I don't want to do now.

"I don't have any clothes here," I finally mange to lie. "What the hell am I gonna wear?"

The reasoning falls flat with Starsky. Forehead wrinkling, he stares at me until I feel seconds away from bursting under his careful gaze. It's almost clinical, the way he's looking at me, with the tiniest hint of sad regret shining in his eyes.

"If I go get you some clothes..." he says, voice suddenly gentle and firm, as though he's negotiating with a tantruming toddler. The tone makes me want to cry. I'm much too strong for him to ever need to talk to me like that. "...will you take a shower then?"

Averting my eyes to the floor, I shrug, hating everything about this moment in time. I don't want him to leave me—not even for a second—I need him. I need his strength and anger to give me something to hold on to. But I'm not going to beg him to stay.

"Or maybe Huggy can make a run to your place," he mumbles almost to himself.

The words fill me with a rush a relief that only grows as I gratefully watch him saunter to nightstand.

"Any requests?" He smiles, picking up the phone receiver and pressing it to his ear.

"No."

"No?" His smile falters. "Oh, hey, Hug," he adds, seconds later, his tone feigning assurance I know he doesn't feel.

I turn my attention to the room but it isn't long before it settles on the splatters of blood peppering and staining my tattered shirt sleeves. My wrists are hidden from view—Starsky made sure of that; he wrapped them carefully, cringing as he silently endured my hisses of pain—I remember how they look. Broken skin, raw and red from the ropes they used to bind me to the bed. My gaze fixes on the crook of my arm, swollen and peppered with bruises, and I blink because I can't believe what I'm seeing. A sloppy line of track marks stare back at me red, angry, _accusing_. And sucking in a shaky breath, I fight tears as I struggle to convince myself that the arm I'm looking at isn't mine. It _can't_ possibly belong to me.

How could I let this happen? How can I be so effective at saving others but fail to save myself?

My face crumbles, my vision blurs as my eyes fill with unwanted tears. Suddenly, it's as though it's happening all over again. I can feel the pain of the ropes wrapped around my wrists and the stinging pinch of a needle being pushed in the crook of my arm. But there's no rush of endorphins to sooth away the aching in my muscles and bones, no overwhelming sense of perfect pleasure and happiness to chase away my guilt and shame.

I thought I was stronger than this, I really _believed_ I was.

But somehow I'm not, and if Forest were here I know I'd gratefully accept another needle in my arm. I'd tell him whatever he wanted to know, do whatever he asked me to do, just as long as gave me what I needed—just one last fix to chase away my overwhelming pain. Just one more, then I won't need it anymore. I'll be strong again; I won't need anything to disguise the pain of yesterday or the uncertainty of tomorrow. Just one more hit and I'll be... I'll be just like them. Jimmy, Frank, and Andy, all good guys— _great_ cops—who couldn't withstand the pain. The truth hits me hard and hands covering my face, I dissolve into a fit of tears.

I don't want to be like them, but _Christ_ this is just too hard. I thought I was stronger than this, I really, _really_ did.

"Hutch..." Starsky whispers, sitting heavily next to me on the bed. "Oh, babe..."

"I-I'm just like them," I force out in-between hitched breaths. Wrapping my arms around myself, I bend over until my forehead touches my knees. I want nothing more than to crawl inside myself. Disappear. "I-I'm gonna b-be just like t-them."

Wordlessly Starsky pulls me upright and gathers me in his arms. And still, I want to yell and scream, to demand an explanation of what I did to deserve any of this, and most of all I want Starsky to save me—from my fragmented memories and the ever-growing sickness in the pit of my stomach. Though he's unable to do either of those things, being close to him helps, even if it dissolves what's left of my resolve.

I cling to him, letting out series of deep body-wracking sobs as my fingers grasp the back of his shirt. I hold on to him as though I may never let him go—and in that moment I'm certain that I won't, that I can't. His strength is the only thing keeping me afloat; the absoluteness of his love the only thing leading me in the direction I need to go.

Starsky doesn't say a word—not that I could hear him anyway—he holds me tight and lets me cry.

I'm not sure how long I carry on like that—incoherent and unaware— when my sobs finally ebb, I'm surprised to see we've moved. Starsky's back is pressed against the headboard and I'm in-between his knees, leaning weakly against his chest. It's a compromising position, something I know neither of us would allow under normal circumstances, but we've employed it before. It's a position reserved for awful sickness and terrible injuries, proximity meant to soothe when nothing else will help.

"You're gonna be fine, Hutch," Starsky says quietly. "Just give it time."

"This is going to cost me my career," I whisper again, repeating the only fear I'm brave enough to voice.

But there are other fears—too numerous to count, too large and devastating to be calmed now—questions of how I'll ever be able to feel the same again and if the shame burrowing into my heart will ever go away.

"No, you won't," Starsky promises, resting his cheek against the top of my head. "You're not going to lose a thing."

"But what if I do?" I whisper, fresh tears trailing down my cheeks. My chest feels like it's on fire, my head is pounding from exertion, my body is exhausted and spent, but still my tears won't wane. "What if I'm not strong enough?"

"You are."

"What if I forget who I am?"

"Then I'll remind you."

"What if I c-can't..." breath hitching, tears overwhelm me, holding me captive to my greatest fear.

What if I can't live past this moment? What if my shame swallows me and I can't survive this pain?

"You can," Starsky's voice is thick, stubborn, yet soft with a hint of unyielding love. "And you will. I ain't leaving your side for a second, Hutch. I'll be right here to pull you through."

Grasping Starsky's arms, as he holds me close, I take solace in his strength and his certainty, and for a fleeting moment I feel strong too.

"You're stronger than all of them put together," Starsky repeats, his voice a soft whisper, minutes after my eyes close and I began to give into exhausted sleep. "I know it, and you know it too."

And somewhere deep inside I do, though it's hard a thing to be certain of now. But the warmth of Starsky's arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, are both comforting reminders that despite everything—what has happened and what is yet to come—there is one thing I will never lose.

END


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